


Green Carnations

by redmacallan



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, also the layton universe is a crapsack world honestly, desmond's Gay folks, green carnations used as a symbol for gay men, i saw a post saying the layton games were set in the sixties and ran with it, identity crisis, the major character death is of two ocs, thinking about names and identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redmacallan/pseuds/redmacallan
Summary: Hershel Bronev wants a life in the first place. Desmond Sycamore wants the life he had back.Jean Descole wants to destroy Targent. And that, the man who is all three can just about do.





	Green Carnations

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a little introspective piece about Sycamore, and after seeing a post suggesting that the series is set in the 1960s, that piece turned into this.
> 
> So, here's a little semi-historical, angsty fic about Desmond Sycamore, everyone's favourite professor who turns out to be evil. Enjoy!

 

He is Hershel Bronev.

He is sure of this. It says so on the front of all his schoolbooks, on his bedroom door, on the book of baby pictures his parents have of him. It’s sewn into the back of his school uniform, scrawled into the bottom of his shoes so they don’t get mixed up with Theodore’s or the other boys’.

And then, rather quickly, he is not Hershel Bronev anymore. 

No-one is. His parents leave and take the surname with them- one to their death, and the other to its twisted, awful end, a name used to incite fear, to rule through terror.

His brother takes the first name for the opposite reason. He stays alive because of it. He uses it for kindness, politeness, a name said with respect through the streets of Stansbury, sighed with relief in Gressenheller by students.

So he is not Hershel Bronev, and the knowledge that he isn’t stands in place of a name, for a while. What use is a name when you’re alone? There’s no-one to use it, after all.

He still wears the shoes with Hershel Bronev written in them. It feels like he’s stolen someone else’s clothes. 

He leaves the shoes behind when he joins the Sycamores. They’re hidden behind a panel in the house along with the photo album, the sign on his door, and his schoolbooks. No-one will ever call themselves Hershel Bronev again.

The Sycamores are a massive, bustling family, the sort of home where it’s easy for the shy, quiet one to hide away. Only a few of them there are Sycamores by birth- most are orphans from London who the Sycamores decided to take in. He just slips in along with them.

They ask him his name a lot, but he doesn’t reply. Mrs Sycamore looks at him worriedly for the first week, giving him extra potatoes as if they might help him get his name back.

It doesn’t, but he likes the potatoes.

She asks him to stay in the kitchen one evening (“to help me dry the dishes,” she claims, but he knows otherwise), and corners him then.

“Would you like to tell me your name now?” she asks, stern but not unkind.

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

She nods at him with an air of finality. “We’re going to call you Desmond, then. Desmond Sycamore.”

And so, again rather quickly, he is Desmond Sycamore.

The church signs it on his new birth certificate and in all the parish records. He tells it to all the other children there. More importantly, however, he writes it in his shoes, on his schoolbook, and on the inside of his books.

Hershel Bronev is safe, hidden forever. It’s Desmond Sycamore’s turn.

And, to be fair, Desmond gives it a damn good go for almost two decades.

Sure, he studies like a madman. Every book in the library he can find, he reads from cover to cover. He does well enough to go to the grammar school a few towns over, and he reads the whole library there, too, spending hours poring over the pages of Rutledge’s  _ Ancient Histories _ , trying in vain to find the answer to just what took away his parents, his brother, his  _ name _ .

There are always two words in the papers and books. Azran and Targent. They become his mortal enemies.

He leaves school with good grades and enough force to get into Cambridge, and there’s still a little joyous, childish part of him that lights up when he sees their history section. He relaxes there, stays there some nights after the blackout when it’s not safe to go outside.

There are bombs falling around him and a war unfolding, but he can’t bring himself to care. He knows there’s history being made here. The problem is he really only cares about the history from long, long ago.

It’s only right, then, that when he falls in love it’s in the library.

His name is Robert, and unlike Desmond, he has never had any other name. He is a physics student, and a little too uptight to really befriend the other students.

Desmond loves him immediately. 

They can’t fall in love openly. Anything they do is shadowed, covered by the knowledge that if they were to ever get caught, it’d be the end of both of them. Neither of them care.

Desmond gets lucky with his research about six months into their relationship, just at the end of the war. An explosion from a previously undetonated bomb goes off in a field near Coventry, exposing some Azran ruins. They’re not much to look at, but they’re hardy enough to survive a bomb and they have writing on them, which makes them interesting enough to write a paper about.

Desmond buys them a house a few miles away from the university (“so you can do all your thinking in peace,” he tells Robert) because now he’s got things to do. He’s discovered something new about the Azran.

He’s one step closer to himself again.

It threatens to consume him completely for a while. He stays up for nights on end, researching, analyzing, translating and retranslating to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.

It’s Robert who puts a stop to it, rather suddenly, with a baby.

“What…” Desmond stares at it, the tiny, shrieking bundle in Robert’s arms. “What is that?”

“Her name’s Betty,” he replies. “One of my students had her and couldn’t keep her, so…”

“So you brought her home?!” Desmond yells. He shouldn’t yell, it’s too loud, someone will hear them, or they’ll hear the baby, but he’s  _ scared, _ damn it, and-

“Yes.” Robert hangs his head briefly, ashamed, then straightens up again. “We’ve got a house here, Desmond. Somewhere safer and warmer than the streets. I’m not asking you to  _ love _ her, but I’m asking you to understand that this is the best I could do for her.”

Desmond understands. And, given a few weeks, he loves her, too.

She’s terrifying. She’s the scariest thing he’s ever been around, not least because she’s the biggest piece of evidence that he and Robert are together, but they manage. He doesn’t tell anyone who doesn’t ask anything about the three of them, and those who do ask get the briefest lie he can manage- we share a house, I am seeing a woman, and my roommate is a fool who adopts children on a whim.

Desmond must also be a fool, though, because he’s looking after her too. He takes half the feeds, learns how to make powdered milk on the stove, cleans up spills of every bodily fluid imaginable.

It’s degrading. And then he looks into the eyes of the man he loves and the daughter he loves, and he goes to sleep, and he does it all again the next morning.

Robert’s research dies down after Betty shows up. He keeps up to date on all the latest journals, though physics is tentative and mournful after the end of the war, and satisfies himself with teaching Betty about gravity and astronomy.

“I’m hoping her first words will be something to do with physics,” he says, and Desmond laughs.

Desmond continues his work, but the motivation to get back at Targent dies away a little with Robert and Betty by his side. It’s hard to feel any sense of loss for a past life when your present one wakes you up at four in the morning because they’re hungry.

Months pass. Her first word is tiger, after Robert takes her to the zoo. Desmond’s not there to see it, but she says it over and over again for days afterwards. 

Robert is disappointed, but only slightly. Both of them are too proud to feel much else.

Desmond’s research lands him more journals, more money, but also more trips. He invests in a butler, Raymond, a quiet Scottish man. Robert hates the idea at first, but Raymond is fiercely loyal and lets nothing leave the house. Betty takes a shine to him, too, and it’s a lot easier to let her go outside with the butler instead of with two men who have to pretend not to be her parents.

Desmond’s there on her second birthday to watch her blow the candles out. He claps his hands and laughs and gives her the book that he’s bought her. She cuddles his arm while he reads it to her later that night, mumbling the words when they get to one she knows. 

It’s the last birthday she ever sees.

Desmond leaves a week later. It’s the biggest research trip he’s ever taken, trying to find some Azran ruins whose location he’s discovered from some old texts.

He’s excited. This could give him enough to retire. Enough to support his family forever. Enough, maybe, to finally be free of his demons.

He finds the ruins, but he finds Targent there first. He does his best to fight back, but…

Well, knowledge is no match for a machine gun.

He returns to Cambridge angry and frustrated. Targent have already taken everything from him. He can’t allow them to take his research, too. At least his family is still there.

And then... They aren’t.

By the time he arrives, the house is little more than a pile of ashes. Family photos blackened. Memories gone. He finds Betty’s book amidst the rubble, its cover half-intact.

He cries. He has no idea how long for, but he sinks to his knees and sobs until nothing comes out anymore, until he feels hollow, husk-like. Raymond, appearing as if by magic, comes up to him, places a hand on his shoulder, and informs him that they’re in the hospital. He walks there like he’s in a daze, gives his name, and is shown up to the ward.

They’re there, beside each other. Betty’s hooked up to a respirator, an IV tube stuck in one arm, the other wrapped in bandages. Half of Robert looks like it’s just being held together by cloth alone, and he’s got a respirator on, too.

He wants to cry again. He won’t let himself.

Robert’s eyes flicker open at the sound of his footsteps, and he smiles weakly through the mask.

The nurse gives them both a look. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

The door clicks shut.

Desmond takes a seat, placing his hand in Robert’s, trying helplessly to figure out what to say.

Robert taps his palm, then points to a pen and pad on the table. 

_ Oh. _ Desmond hands them over.

Robert’s handwriting is shaky, weak, almost unreadable.  _ It was Targent. They started the fire. _

“No-” Desmond chokes, his throat closing up.

Robert keeps writing.  _ Thank you. I love you. _

“I love you,” he replies, almost in a whisper. 

He goes to grab Robert’s hand, but Robert bats him away, one last time.  _ Hold hers too, _ he writes.

Desmond does. The seconds tick by.

They pass away within minutes of each other.

He stops trying to be Desmond Sycamore. Desmond Sycamore failed. He failed the man he loved. He failed his research. He failed his daughter.

He failed Hershel Bronev, the boy who never existed.

He throws himself into his work. He becomes obsessed with the Azran, with stopping Targent from getting to their final goal. Raymond’s paycheck goes up in order to keep him quiet after he says that maybe the master shouldn’t be working himself so hard. 

And, because Desmond Sycamore failed, he becomes Jean Descole instead- a puppet, without the soul and morals and heart that destroyed Desmond. 

Hershel Bronev wants a life in the first place. Desmond Sycamore wants the life he had back. 

Jean Descole wants to destroy Targent. And that, the man who is all three can just about do.

Sycamore has his uses, of course. His wealth of information, his connections with other academics, the persona he’s created that means people trust him. Descole can use all of these.

It is around this time- perhaps in ‘56- that he first hears of a young upstart professor called Hershel Layton.

His hands shake around the paper as he reads the name, sees the tiny image printed next to it. For a moment, he’s not-Hershel again, the boy who gave his brother his name to save him, leaving himself alone.

And then he reads the word  _ Azran _ , sees what Hershel Layton has been researching, and he is Descole again- a man with a purpose.

Layton soon becomes useful in his plans. He’s  _ too _ moral, if anything. It’s delightfully easy for Descole to slip in, to spy on him while Layton does the heavy lifting. And well, the little part of him that hates the kidnappings and the deception and the violence- the part that’s still Desmond Sycamore- he doesn’t have to listen to that anymore.

Not until Sycamore meets Layton, anyway.

He’s got it all carefully planned out. Put on the mask that is Desmond Sycamore, as he has done for many years, and charm Layton into helping him find and solve whatever puzzles the Azran have set out for them. Keep him comfortable and distracted enough that he doesn’t ask too many questions. Make sure everyone stays on task so there aren’t any uncomfortable questions about him, or his past, or any secret identities he may or may not have.

And it works, for perhaps the first week. He meets Layton in Froenborg, talks with him about professional matters, lets him participate in the first puzzle.

Layton solves it quicker than he ever could have. He really is good.

Layton trusts him because his name’s in archaeological journals. The boy trusts him because Raymond gives him sweets. Altava trusts him because he speaks to her politely, as an individual. The girl, Aurora, trusts him because she doesn’t know any better.

But these people- Layton’s people- are successful for a reason. It takes maybe a week for them to get under his skin. It’s not much- a mention of a lost daughter here, a short rant about Targent that he could’ve suppressed there, one late-night conversation with Layton that just about strays into too-personal territory, as they talk about how archeology has seeped into every aspect of their lives.

Raymond smiles as he overhears that last one. He thinks he’s making  _ progress _ .

The worst part is that he’s not entirely wrong.

It doesn’t last. Nothing good or happy or stable ever lasts, not for him. He sticks to the plan. He steals the key. He reveals himself as Descole.

And then he thinks he’s going to die.

He must’ve become more attached to these people than he thought over the space of a few months, because when he sees Luke about to be disintegrated by the Azran’s defenses, he’s powerless to stop himself. He jumps in front. He takes the hit instead.

It’s not even a choice.

As he lies there, wound in his side, blood cauterised from the heat, there’s some part of him that can’t stop thinking about how if he could’ve done this for them- could have had the smoke destroy his lungs, the fire burn his body instead- he would’ve done so in an instant. He would have, if only he’d had the chance.

His mind’s foggy. He’s not sure for a moment who he’s saved- Luke Triton, the boy who’s been a thorn in his side, or Betty Sycamore, the girl who’s been dead and buried for years.

He’s lucid enough to tell Layton the truth though, if only so he doesn’t have to take it to his grave, so someone else can stop Targent for him. If no-one stops them, he’ll have wasted the last seven years of his life for nothing.

_ Seven years. Wasted. _

_ Robert, what would you think of me? _

Shit. He’s going to start talking about things even Layton can’t hear if they don’t leave soon. He pleads for them to go on, to leave without him, and with some resistance, they do.

And the room ripples, and he’s back in the hospital room, and he’s holding Robert’s hand for all it’s worth, and the words  _ I love you _ , written in loopy, weak handwriting keep appearing in front of him, and there’s a clock ticking and Betty can’t breathe anymore and he can’t breathe anymore and he’s going to die and he’s going to die and he’s going to-

And then he can breathe, and the room straightens itself up again, and he’s not dead.

He’s not dead.

He never really understands why.

All of a sudden, though, he feels foolish. Who is he? This man with a cape around his shoulders, face covered with a mask, lying hurt in the ruins of an ancient civilisation?

He takes the cape off as he stands. It stays there in the ruins and crumbles with them, too.

He regroups almost in a daze. His feet move by themselves. 

He hears Layton’s voice as he enters, followed by the girl’s. She says they need to stop the beams. There’s something to do. A puzzle to solve. An Azran invention to destroy.

He is Descole again.

“Stop the beams, you say?”

The girl is shocked. Layton says his name- Descole, not Sycamore, because Sycamore was a mask and even Layton knows it  _ what have you done what have you done _

But the girl’s back to talking about the puzzle again, that they need to step on the alcoves, and Layton’s subordinates (his friends,  _ their _ friends, since when did Jean Descole have friends?) are joining in, too. Even Bronev trundles into the room begrudgingly.

When he’s asked to die again, it’s hardly even a difficult choice. There’s no worry about what will happen to him. He’s meant to be dead already.

At least he doesn’t have to take the rest of the world with him.

There’s pain. There’s even more pain than before. This is the all-encompassing, flesh-tearing stuff, the sort of pain that breaks you from the inside out and the outside in at the same time. It’s like watching a thousand daughters die and a thousand husbands slip away (and Robert wasn’t his husband, but he could’ve been, somewhere, and that hurts too) and it’s everywhere, in his eyes, under his skin, in his guts and throat and lungs and heart and head-

And then there’s nothing.

And then he’s not dead. Again.

Layton makes a nice little speech about leaving the past behind. It might have made him angry, or proud, or  _ something _ , once. The girl starts to disintegrate, along with the ship. Layton leaves, along with Bronev and the other two.

He stays. He will crumble here, along with everything he has ever fought to keep alive.

He wishes Layton farewell. He hardly expects to ever see him again.

The girl is gone when he retreats back into the room. It’s better this way, he thinks. Easier to just let go. To accept it.

He’s already done that twice today.

Apparently she’s not gone, however. He stands in the centre of the room, ready to meet his fate, when he hears her. Her voice echoes throughout the chamber, like it’s part of the walls, coming from every direction.

“You should go.”

He’s quiet, stunned for a moment. “I’d rather not,” he replies.

“I revived you.” She sounds frustrated, confused. “You don’t have to die here. You can go and live your life.”

He’s going to die. He can spill his secrets to a fancy robot who’s part of the walls. “I dedicated my life to destroying the Azran. There is nothing left for me after this.”

“Nothing?” She’s surprised. “What about your friends, Professor? Or your daughter?”

He wants to scoff, but can’t. There’s not long, now. No time to waste on scoffing. “The people we travelled with were not my friends. My daughter has been dead for many years. I am ready for this.”

“And yet, you are still afraid and confused.”

“Isn’t everyone before they die?”

“Not me.” He can  _ feel  _ her smile, somehow, even in this inhuman form she’s briefly taken. “Which means it does not have to be your day, today.”

He opens his mouth to speak and closes it when the walls begin to glow.

“Goodbye, Desmond Sycamore,” she says, and then he is knocked unconscious.

He wakes up in the Bostonius, unmasked but wearing a fresh change of clothes, complete with cape. His wound stings, but he can tell that’s because it’s been disinfected, not out of any extra damage.

He sits up and glances around. Raymond is at the helm. He joins him.

Christ. He’s still not dead. Nothing will kill him here, at least not immediately.

He has to live like this, somehow- either as Jean Descole, the man whose purpose has already been fulfilled, or as Desmond Sycamore, the man who failed everyone he knew.

Shit.

He speaks, still used to the way Descole phrases things. A little over-dramatic, something theatrical to distract himself. He’s playing a role. That’s all it is.

“It’s all over. All those years of toil.” The fear sinks in again, deep into the pit of his stomach, and he’s briefly honest. “Where am I to go from here?”

Raymond, ever patient and helpful, replies, “You will find a new purpose, Master. The world is your oyster, and old Raymond your constant companion.”

_The people we travelled with were not my friends._ _There is nothing left for me after this._ And yet, Raymond is still here. Raymond is trying to find him a purpose. Raymond is neither scared nor confused, and he is much less of those things without the threat of death looming over him.

Damm it. She was right. 

He hates her immediately, hates that she was right, because it means she was right about him needing to live.

...But she  _ was _ right.

“You’re right.” he says, more chipper than he feels. “Let’s go, Raymond. A new adventure awaits!”

He can adventure, right? That’s easy enough.

Well, it is, for a while. For three years, in fact, he adventures.

He starts at the places they visited together, as a group. He stays in the Bostonius, in the jungle near Phong Gi, for a while. It’s calming, for some time. He spends his days wandering around the jungle, looking at the running water, the lush plant life, the way that nature leaves its mark on everything it touches.

But it’s all so… alive. Too alive, for him. 

So he leaves, heads to Kodh, where nothing ever happens and the only animals he sees in the streets are dead fish. It’s quiet and easy to hide there, with the whole place shrouded in fog and trees, with very few people coming and going due to the rumours still surrounding the place. It works.

But still, from his perch on the hill, he can see the Azran ruins, sunken deep into the lake, taunting, inescapable. He hates them, though they don’t return his feelings.

He leaves when he can no longer stand their stares.

It continues. Torrido is dry and dusty, and rumours spread about him far too quickly. Mossinia is beautiful but built into Azran relics, and he aches looking at them. Monte d’Or feels fake- too glitzy and glossy for him- and Misthallery is too quaint and down to earth. He tries London, even, going to the Crown Petone, taking a cheap seat and hiding in the shadows, but ends up leaving before long. San Grio is too happy and swelteringly hot- too hot for a cape.

Froenborg, by contrast, is far too cold.

He shivers a few months away there, making little contact with the locals and keeping himself holed up in a cave, away from the world. Raymond does his shopping and what little else he needs, and he stays away from everyone, enveloped by the cold.

It’s not really exploring, but he tried to explore and didn’t like it. What’s a man to do?

Living in a cave, however, does have its downsides, and a few months in, he discovers a large one- that sometimes, people will just wander in.

Her name’s Alana, and she’s a research student. She doesn’t know who he is, but she’s wandering through the cave systems when she comes upon his cave. They sit down and drink tea together while they talk about the caves and the artifacts hidden within, the ones that Desmond’s trying so hard to forget.

Descole. He means Descole.

She talks about her professors- the ones she likes, and the ones she likes less- and mentions Layton, rather casually.

“He taught a few of my classes this year,” she says. “He was just covering for the other professors, of course, but it was still an honour to witness him in person.” She sips at her tea. “He’s seen so much, you know, and not just archaeology.”

He can’t let on. “Really? I only knew him from his archeological works.”

“Well, yeah,” she says, confused, “he did all those things with the Prime Minister this year. Saved London from being destroyed by a madman, then managed to forgive the man anyway.” She places her cup down and waggles her finger. “Not that this isn’t nice, but if I could sit down and have a cup of tea with anyone, it’d be him.”

And that is how he skulks back to London, to try and have tea with the man who stole his life.

Layton’s easy to track down- he’s not exactly trying to hide, the media gives him more than enough attention, and his daily habits are both regular and self-contained. He writes Layton a letter and leaves it in his office in typical Descole fashion, in the form of a cryptic clue. 

This could be his last hurrah, after all.

_ I have returned,  _ it says when decoded _ , and I want to see my brother. _

Layton responds in a way that is- to use Miss Altava’s words- very  _ Laytonesque _ . His response is polite and gentlemanly, though it’s also encoded using a very difficult cipher. It makes Descole grin once he’s solved it.

Well, not Descole. The man going by Descole for now.

They meet for tea, then, in Layton’s flat, several floors above the ground with the hustle and bustle of London beneath them. Layton’s coat and shoes are off, and his shirt is untucked, but his hat is perched resolutely on his head, and he’s got on a polite smile.  _ A true gentleman _ , he thinks.

On the other hand, the man calling himself Jean Descole is wearing a fur-lined cape, a tricorn hat, and a mask. It’s the middle of summer and Layton already knows his identity, but he won’t go otherwise. It’s part of the act.

The  _ name _ .

Layton ushers him in and doesn’t say a word about Descole’s slightly grimy shoes on his carpet. He says a few words, and upon realising Descole’s not quite in the mood for conversation yet, disappears to the kitchen to make tea.

Before he goes, though, he pulls out a chair. “Take a seat.”

Descole does, and observes the room. There are pictures of Layton, of course. Some with the boy, who looks a little older now; some with famous politicians or celebrities, most taken after the near-destruction of London; and a few with people Descole doesn’t recognise, but who are clearly friends. A teenage Layton with a young, red-haired man. A student Layton with a woman with curly brown hair and a soft, faraway smile. A Layton as Descole knew him, with the same red-haired man.

He has to squint to realise that’s Randall. He looks different when he’s not moping over a future that was stolen from him.

Layton comes back with the tea, done in a pot with two empty cups and saucers. He places the china down and pours the hot liquid in, sliding one of the cups over to Descole. “Here you go.”

Descole takes a sip. It’s exquisite. The man knows his tea, if nothing else.

He places the cup down, however. “So, Layton-”

The professor cuts him off. “You can call me Hershel, if you’d like. I realise it’s your name too, but-”

It’s his turn to cut Layton off. “Hershel is not my name.”

“Oh?” Layton takes a sip. He’s taken aback.

“It’s not. I gave it to you.”

“Well then,” says Hershel Layton, name thief, “you can call me Hershel, then.” He nods at Descole from across the table. “Brother.”

That sets him off. He’s angry, and he wants answers for questions he doesn’t have, and he wants his brother and his parents and his husband and his  _ life _ back, and this easy familiarity Layton’s putting on makes it all  _ worse, and _ -

He slams a palm down on the table, making the cups jingle. “ _ Damn _ you, Layton. What  _ have _ you been doing?”

“Since we last met?”

“For your whole damn  _ life _ .”

Layton raises an eyebrow. He says, rather monotonously, “I was born in Stansbury in 1929 to my parents, Roland and Lucil-”

“That’s the beginning of the latest  _ Times _ article about you.” He deliberately untenses. takes a disapproving sip of his tea. “Besides which, none of that is true.”

Layton looks uncomfortably out of the window. “It’s true enough for me.”

“And yet you called me brother.”

“...I did.”

They don’t talk much after that. The silence is uncomfortable, full of static.

As he stands to go, though, Layton speaks. “We should meet again.”

He laughs. “Really? I can’t imagine why. This whole meeting has been an all-round failure.”

Layton stares into his teacup. “I’m not letting you walk away again,” he says, voice serious.

“You should,” he says before he can stop himself, then pauses. Isn’t this what he wanted? To meet with the man who stole his life, to get answers, revenge, a taste of what he could have had?

“But I won’t,” replies Layton, and he knows it’s true.

They meet again, still in Layton’s flat, as summer turns to autumn. There’s a pile of textbooks on the table now, shoved to one side- Layton’s clearly preparing for the next school year, and for his new classes.

That’s not what catches Desmond’s- Descole’s-  _ his _ eye, though.

There are green carnations in the vase on the centre of the table, delicately arranged. They’re not mixed in with other flowers, either- these are deliberate, chosen to mean something,  _ say _ something.

Descole knows what they’re saying. He’s read more than his fair share of Robert Hitchens during long flights on the Bostonius. They’re easy to pass off as classic literature, too, though Raymond more than suspects his… preferences, towards men.

He helped raise his  _ daughter _ , for God’s sake! His daughter that had two fathers.

_ His daughter that’s now gone _

And here’s Layton, with a giant bunch of the things, on his own table.

His eyes wander to the pictures around Layton’s flat once again. To Randall, framed beside someone who who clearly Layton’s girlfriend.

_ Ask about the girlfriend first, _ he supposes.

“So,” he says, “no Mrs Layton around here, it seems.”

“Not yet,” replies Layton, with a quirked eyebrow.

“Any lost loves?” he asks. “I’m sure you must have a few.”

Layton nods, and a look crosses his face as if to say  _ ah, yes, this is what he’s getting at _ . “A few. Two, really.”

“Two?”

“Her name was Claire,” Layton says, and then with a nervous look at him, “and his name was Randall.” 

Layton’s looking at him like he’s extending a metaphorical hand.  _ You can trust me, _ it says.  _ You’re safe. _ What scares him the most is that he actually does feel safe, that he actually wants to speak.

Layton speaks again. “What was her name?”

“Robert.” He bites the inside of his mouth. “There was only ever one.”

A horn blares outside. Someone yells. Music plays from the flat underneath.

“What happened to him?” asks Layton, in a hushed, secretive tone.

“He died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, unless you did it.” Desmond Sycamore, feeling ridiculous in a cape and mask, takes a sip of his tea. “It was Targent.”

“You mentioned a wife and children?”

He snorts. “I was lying to you, Layton. I lied a lot during that trip.”

“I don’t think you lied about that.” Layton curls his hand around his teacup. “I think you just changed things a little.”

God, he hates this man. “There was a child, yes. Dead too. Along with her father.”

“I’m so-”

“Don’t be sorry. They’re gone.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause while Layton figures out what to say. His uptight, British politeness won’t work here, it seems.

It’s Desmond who next speaks. “So, Randall? Never would’ve guessed.”

“It was a long time ago. And he always loved Angela, really.”

“Just you, too?”

Layton nods. “Me, too.”

“...He never mentioned it.”

Layton frowns. “We both know the kind of trouble you can get into for saying that. It would’ve been even worse a few years ago.”

It’s true.

Desmond’s finished his tea. He stands up, ready to leave when Layton speaks again. “What name do you go by now? Is it Desmond or Descole?”

He flicks his cape dramatically. “Why should it matter?”

“I’d like to write to Luke about you. I’d at least like to get your name right when I do.”

He waves a hand, dismissively. “Then describe me. He’ll know who you mean.”

“Would you like me to describe the man or the mask?”

And damn, if that’s not the most piercing thing Layton’s ever said, but he won’t let him get away with it. “Aren’t they one and the same?”

“Of course not. The mask is Jean Descole. The man I just spoke to is Desmond Sycamore.” Layton stands, too. “And somewhere in there is my brother, Hershel Bronev.”

Descole’s lips form a hard line. “Your brother died a long time ago,” he says, as he turns on his heel and walks out of the door.

He seethes about that statement all evening. How  _ dare _ he?! What does it even matter to Layton, anyway? Why should either of them care?

He’s mostly angry because it’s  _ true _ , though. Who is he now? Has he been the man, or the mask, or the boy beneath them all? Who has Layton been meeting for tea? Who took down Targent?

Who did Robert love?

He doesn’t know, but Layton seems to. At their next meeting, he offers Descole-Desmond a seat and goes into the kitchen, as usual, to leave him to figure out what Layton wants to talk about. 

There’s one of Desmond Sycamore’s papers on the table, one about the translation and analysis of some old Azran works, from back in the fifties when he and Robert were together. There are notes sticking out of it too- fresh ones, like it’s been recently studied.

Layton comes back from the kitchen and pours them both tea. “I’ve been doing some research on Desmond Sycamore.”

“Oh?”

“Of course, I’ve been following Sycamore’s work, but not as closely as I would have liked.” He opens the book to a certain page with a large highlighted section. “I had some questions about this section in particular. I understood the logic up to a certain point, but it seems like the conclusions have just been drawn up out of nowhere.” Layton spins the book around to show him. “Perhaps you’d like to take a look.”

His eyes scan the page. Ah, yes- he remembers this. He wrote it in his study in Cambridge, the one that was too dark to really read in, but where he could hear Robert singing from downstairs. There is some leap of logic, he supposes, but it’s not unexplainable. “Those conclusions were drawn up and explained in a later chapter. It would have been going off topic to explain it there.”

“Shouldn’t that have been added in a note?”

He hums. “I suppose so, though that was considered bad form at the time.”

“I’d have considered it worse form to simply conclude something out of nowhere.”

He nods and hands the paper back to Layton. “I would, too.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I wrote that a long time ago, you know. I should hope my work is better now.”

There’s a twinkle in Layton’s eye. _You_ _wrote it_? It seems to say. “Well then,” he replies, “I’ve got some questions about your later works, too.”

They talk for a few hours, going over some details of Desmond’s works which were sloppily written, done either tiredly or in an enthusiastic frenzy. Desmond corrects himself and argues his case, and Layton usually agrees, penciling in corrections in the margins.

He leaves the flat as Desmond Sycamore, albeit Desmond Sycamore in costume. When he next meets Layton, he ditches the costume entirely.

They meet again, and again, and again. They talk about archeology, and academia, how it’s changed since they first joined. Later, Layton tells him about Luke, what he’s studying in America, how things are different over there. 

He does things outside of his talks with Layton, too. He buys new clothes, new furniture for the Bostonius. He gives Raymond some time off, though he practically has to force the man into taking it. He goes to the barber and gets his hair trimmed, not so much as to change the style, but enough to feel clean, replenished.

It’s mid-December when he tells Layton he’ll be going back to Cambridge. Layton wishes him farewell and promises to call. Desmond promises to visit, though with his recent return to academia he’s sure they’ll meet anyway. He intends to become as prolific as Layton is now.

He buys the flat quickly, one in the center of town, near the university. The Bostonius is kept a few streets away, ready for if he needs it, but he keeps his feet on the ground, now. Snow falls, and bells ring, and Raymond goes to spend Christmas with some relatives, at Desmond’s request.

He has someone else he’d like to spend time with.

He has no gifts on Christmas morning- he bought a bottle of whiskey for Raymond, but that had been given before he left- and instead wakes to the church bells down the road. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits on the balcony to drink it, breath condensing in the cold.

It is quiet, save for the sound of the children from the family downstairs laughing.

He sits down after breakfast at his desk, and gets out the finest pen and paper he owns. This is important, after all.

And so Desmond Sycamore writes:

_ Dearest Robert, _

_ It is my greatest regret that I did not write you this letter soon, and that I did not have the gall to tell you these things in person. It is too late now for you to know them, at least on this plane, but it is not too late for me to say them; and, quite honestly, they are things which must be said. _

_ I love you. I always did, and I am sure you knew that, if nothing else. I regret nothing of our time together, only that it was not longer and tainted by our circumstances. I brought that upon you, and for that, I am sorry. _

_ I realise, however, that I have not been entirely truthful to you. In part, this is because I was never truthful to myself, and did not give myself the time to think through the events which I am about to detail to you, but it is still true that I did not tell them to you as I knew them then. I have been a liar, though not a malicious one. _

_ I was not born Desmond Sycamore. I was born Hershel Bronev, son of Leon Bronev. He is- or was, when I knew you- the leader of Targent.  _

_ My father killed you. I will never forgive him for that. _

_ I was separated from my parents at an early age, and my brother and I were given up for adoption. Unfortunately, the family available could only take in one child, and they chose Hershel. Being the elder of my two siblings, I could not leave my younger brother alone. He would have starved in that big, empty house- so I gave him my name, and was left nameless. _

_ I was no longer Hershel Bronev, and yet I still carried the sting of his actions. _

_ I was adopted by the Sycamores during the war, and they gave me the name which I met you with. As Desmond Sycamore, I studied hard, went to Cambridge, fell in love, adopted a child- all the things I should have been proud of. _

_ I was proud, Robert. I was happy. But always, always, there was the feeling that I wasn’t myself. That Desmond Sycamore was just a mask invented by a young boy who couldn’t bear to see his brother die. And so I was afraid. _

_ After your death, that fear manifested itself into another mask- that of Descole. I cannot bear to tell you what I did under his name, but let that be enough. Descole destroyed Targent, but at the cost of his own identity- he was built around Targent’s destruction, and left with nothing to do afterwards. _

_ I almost died, as Descole. I was struck by rubble in some ruins, and told my companions to leave me. _

_ I saw you. _

_ I met my brother again, recently. He goes by Hershel Layton now. I had been wandering the world, a man without a name or a mask, unsure of what to do after all my names had been taken from me. I met someone who spoke well of him, and thought we should meet again. _

_ That makes it all sound so easy, Robert, but it was hard. It was the most difficult thing in the world, to become Desmond Sycamore again. _

_ As hard as it was, though, my brother did teach me one thing. He calls himself Layton, not Bronev, and yet he calls me brother. We do not share a name, but we share a past. _

_ And I realised I had to start doing the same. _

_ I was not born Desmond Sycamore, love, but I was shaped Desmond Sycamore. I was raised as him. I loved as him. I lived, for the first time in my life, as him. _

_ I am him. _

_ I am sorry, again, that it has taken me so long to write this, but I did not realise this until recently. We are not our names, nor are we our masks. We are our actions, and though many of my actions were in spite and revenge, I was kind with you. I will call myself Desmond Sycamore, in your memory, but you loved a Hershel Bronev and a Jean Descole too. It is our actions that make us who we are. _

_ I am purposeful for the first time in a long time, love. Say hi to Betty for me. I’m sure she’s grown up to be a wonderful person. I shall see you soon. _

_ Love,  
_ _ Desmond Sycamore. _


End file.
